5.14.2012

El ciego / José Antonio Ramos Sucre

The theologian had become withered and feverish. He was meditating without respite a mortal idea and leafing, in search of relief, through the folios piled on the lectern or spilled on the pavement.

The authors of those volumes had grown old in the retreat listening to the warnings of a timid consciousness. They would leave their cells to awaken, with their arguments, the amazement of the universities.

The theologian was demanding assistance from a bloody crucifix, after registering with his glance the images of some three-headed devils armed with tridents, in memory and representation of the capital sins. A sculptor from the Middle Ages had used such figures when composing an abbey’s filigree.

I insinuated myself into the penitent’s friendship and pressed him to confide in me the reason for his inquietude. He tried to retract me from the question alternately using subterfuges and threats. At that moment he was strolling under the stimulus of a pressing hallucination.

I ended up remaining on my knees as I directed toward him the most impassioned plea.

He imposed his hand on my forehead and allowed himself to associate me with his terrible vision.

The view of the infernal tortures profoundly fixed itself in my senses and followed me day and night, plunging me into desperation.

I found my health by voluntarily going blind. I have abolished my eyes and I am free and consoled.